... and the morning came
in a thunder of birds
a fan of feathers
on the green of the mountain

the spear of the Young Son
darting through the vermilion
the cerulean -- the speckle
of a salmon's belly

and the morning came
and the bright-faced Day
combed her shining hair
on the silk of the river

and the naked boughs
of my bleak winter
edged into leaf
into spring they edged

with a thunder of birds
the morning came
a chorus of trumpets
from flowers unseen

and on the river
my hope's light gleamed
and reckless dreams wavered
in the glory of peace

 

your name -- incomparable
and the white veil of peace
on your black hair
a shroud, now
a cloud
from barrel and bullet and bomb
only death can gag you
and even that
is speaking

brown hands clutch no steel
save that of will
and even that -- borrowed
from a sea of eyes
haunted in silence
and haunting in their mass

keep your hands empty
for peace, you counsel --
bear no barrel
save words --
lightly you walk
within the cage of numbered days

your name -- incomparable
and your woman's hands
cupped and filled with peace
let our remembrance be a garland
on the grave of war

a white wind whirls wild, swallowing the paths i carved from it with a cherry red shovel. inside, i sigh and busy myself, the candles burning brightly on my altar in homage.

today is a Hearth Goddess day. how little we regard Her, the flamekeeper who holds herself back from the Olympian drama -- the spinster, named for the work of women from the beginning of days: fiber artist, net-spinner, spider woman. we've come to valorize warriors, but what would we be without the hearth woman, whose fire creates home from cold and crag, whose mantle protects us?

A Bhrighid, scar os mo chionn do bhrat fionn dom anacal.

she is the center of the city, the fortress, and the weathered woman in the kitchen, her face etched with the stylus of age, telling tales with the scent of baking. virginal, yes, owned by no man -- but she is Mother in her basic element: the womb that warms us, the food that feeds us, warm skin and full bellies, lights dazzled by the dancing brightness.

she is furnace and forge and flame, hearth and home and here, maker and mother and mender. city center, she mends all disputes and marries the outsider to the hearth as she married Bres from the other side, as she gave her seat to the foreign god of ecstasy.

she is the beauty we forget to see, until we are standing amid the blank white, our footsteps swallowed by it, erasing the path back.

Hestia, Vesta, Tabiti, Brighid -- hail the Hearth Mother in the mouth of winter.

Brighid, Lady of Healing, fill us with your peace.

Bring peace to those who hear the crack of thunder from a gun in a place of refuge, who see the sunlight glint off its barrel.

Brighid, Lady of Healing, fill us with your peace.

Bring peace to those where shots are as common as the cries of sparrows, where each step on the crumbling walk is taken with held breath and a prayer half-believed.

Brighid, Lady of Healing, fill us with your peace.

Bring peace to those who put the softness of their own flesh and the strength of their bone in the path of the bullet or the blade.

Brighid, Lady of Healing, fill us with your peace.

Bring peace to those with the swift feet or the limping, who flee the pain of pain to preserve life.

Brighid, Lady of Healing, fill us with your peace.

Bring peace to those sheeted in red, the wellspring of their blood spilling words and meaning on the ground.

Brighid, Lady of Healing, fill us with your peace.

Bring peace to those whose bodies are unmarred, but whose minds bear the scars of their witness.

Brighid, Lady of Healing, fill us with your peace.

Bring peace to those who stand confused on the shores of the Sunless Sea, their lives the unplucked apples of the Western Isle, their farewells and jokes and love notes unsaid, unsent.

Brighid, Lady of Healing, fill us with your peace.

Bring peace to those whose tears bear the barge to the Otherworld, who hold memories in shaking hands and hearts webbed with cracks.

Brighid, Lady of Healing, fill us with your peace.

Bring peace to those who knit limbs, who tend to souls and hearts, who offer the bread of comfort and the milk of nurturance.

Brighid, Lady of Healing, fill us with your peace.

Bring peace to those who bear witness, who share the words of truth and so drive off the black wings of silence and its carrion crow with their telling.

Brighid, Lady of Healing, fill us with your peace.

Bring peace to those who fire the gun and loft the grenade, to those that maim and those that kill, so that the fire of their rage is quenched in your well's sweet waters.

Brighid, Lady of Healing, fill us with your peace.

Let your waters pour out with the peace of the singing brook scattering sunlight, the peace of the roaring white-maned sea, the peace of the drumming rain and the lake ringed with reeds.

Brighid, Lady of Healing, fill us with your peace.

Let your waters knit wounds and quell the blaze of rage, of pain, the starless deep of despair and the gray slate of indifference.

Brighid, Lady of Healing, fill us with your peace.

Let us swim in your healing waters until we know that we are all enfolded in the same sea, that we are the sea itself, the sea coursing through the salt of our tears and of our blood, turned sweet by your palms into the deep well of compassion.

Brighid, Lady of Healing, fill us with your peace.

A Bhrighid, scar os mo chionn do bhrat fionn dom anacal.

Forgiveness

------------------

my name is forgiveness
i am
a moth easily
lured into web
or flame or bulb
the wind's susurration
silenced by the sirens
roaring red
in the gladiator's ring.

blame pinions me
in a glass case
dust-covered and forgotten
by the rushing children
remembered only by the old
who see the moth flit
in the mind's theater --
luna, white-winged
and pale green
perched on the sweetgum.

youth hates me
and generals with their
lockstep march
and radicals sipping
molotov cocktails
and torching the cafes.

but the lined
and war-weary --
starved saints
paper dolls
my name is
on their desert lips
white wings taking flight
white wings that are more
than surrender --
my name is
forgiveness.

Fragility

------------

come to me
in your fragility
and not the masonry of your strength
cementing the bricks
of hard glances
adamantine words
shored with the rebar
of unbending spine
victorian corset -- a lace net with
the whalebone of propriety

come to me
with your scholar's hands
pale against a black binding
edged with red
page-edges worn
and loved raw
by fingertip touch

come to me
in your uncertainty
on the sand of desire
roughening the sole
the mouths of white surf
feasting on that other earth
and call to me
when your back is
against the stone
the crow perched
shadow on the shoulder

and i will cut you down
and bring the water
with the well of my palms
smoothing your pages
and shoring your earth

come to me
in your fragility
and not the strength
that steels the green of your flesh
honing the bone of your soul